A/N: safelycapricious asked: ""Come on, just hit me!" Biospecialist!"

(Takes place in the same universe as previous drabble, but-as that one takes place after this-you shouldn't need to read that to understand this.)

"Come on," Jemma bites out, well past the point of patience. "Just hit me!"

"I'm not gonna hit you," Grant says flatly, for perhaps the hundredth time.

"We agreed—"

"We agreed to make Skye think that I hurt you," he interrupts. "You didn't say anything about actually doing it. If you had, I'd've told you to come up with another plan."

"Which is precisely why I didn't tell you," she says. "And now it's too late to draw up an entirely new one, so I'm afraid you've no choice. Hit me."

"I am not going to hit you."

"We've already discussed this, Grant," she says. "This is our best hope for getting what we need from Skye without breaking my cover—which I will remind you is only necessary because you've completely broken yours."

He throws his hands up. "What was I supposed to do?" He affects the monotone voice he always uses when mimicking his cover, "No, Skye, you shouldn't hack the NSA, even though it would make tracking those prisoners twenty times easier. Why not? Well, I can't actually tell you, but trust me, I've got a good reason."

"Exactly," she says, jabbing a finger at him. "You were short on options and backed into a corner, much as we are now. You did the only thing you could and let her hack the NSA, even though it meant you had to cross off Koenig and kidnap her. Now, you'll do the only thing you can and hit me in order to make our deception convincing, even though you—"

"I'm not gonna hit you."

"Why are you being so squeamish about this?" she demands, beyond frustrated. It's not as though she's looking forward to being struck, but if he would stop whinging and just get on with it they could've been done by now. Skye will be regaining consciousness soon; they need to get this over with. "You've killed three people today, one little punch—"

"I didn't love any of those people," he snaps, appearing equally frustrated. "I made a promise—"

"Oh, enough with the promises," she says. "I appreciate that you don't want to hurt me, darling, I truly do. But causing me a little bit of pain now will save us both quite a lot of pain later. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist."

"Jem," he says, and there's a look in his eyes more suited to his cover. He's not often this solemn when he's being himself. "I don't know if I can."

She sighs, her anger dissipating like so much smoke, and closes the distance her frustrated pacing caused between them in order to wrap her arms around his neck.

"I know, darling," she says, as he rests his forehead against hers. "I know this is a sensitive topic, and I wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't vital for the success of our plan."

Violence is Grant's bread and butter. It is not only his profession but one of his favorite pastimes, and he makes no apology for it. Still, she knew he would balk at the thought of harming her. He's caused her pain before, of course, but only in the most delicious of ways—and there is nothing enjoyable about striking her in the face.

His childhood left its mark on him, however much he denies it. Violence and lying and manipulation come as easily to him as breathing, and the only time he feels even the slightest regret for it is when he must turn those skills against the people he cares about. (Which is, admittedly, a very short list.)

In lieu of a response, he kisses her. He's stalling, but she allows it, hoping it will help him focus. He's emotionally compromised right now, and while it's flattering, it's also highly inconvenient.

His hands are deliberately gentle on her waist, but there's an edge of anger to the kiss, which she regrets. She wishes she could be delicate with this, gently coax him into it and let him have as much time as he needs to prepare, but unfortunately, it's just not possible.

The dendrotoxin's effects will be wearing off soon, and Jemma needs time to prepare for her own part in this deception. She's much less practiced at playing a role than Grant is; the cover she uses in SHIELD is familiar and easy like an old jumper, and the new spin she needs to put on it—the spin of having been terrorized by Grant while Skye was unconscious—will take every ounce of her (frankly lacking) skill to pull off.

So, regretfully, she must force his hand.

"Our only other option," she says, breaking the kiss. "Is to ask Deathlok to do it instead."

"No," Grant says at once, rearing back. His hands clamp down on her waist as though he's expecting her to go fetch their reluctant comrade this very second, and she has to work to hold back a smile. It will serve their purposes very well if his grip bruises her. "We can't trust him not to take it too far."

"Precisely," she agrees. "This is the only way, Grant."

He looks away, jaw tight. "Jemma—"

"You can make it up to me when this is all over," she promises. "We'll go away together, just the two of us. How does that sound, hmm? A nice holiday to recover from this whole mess."

"It'll take more than mai-tais and sunshine to fix this clusterfuck, Jem," he says.

"You, me, a private suite on the water," she lists, scratching her nails lightly along the back of his neck. "A third honeymoon. Won't that be lovely?"

"Fourth," he corrects, obviously amused despite himself. "You're forgetting Bangkok."

"How many times do I have to tell you, Bangkok does not count—"

"Come on, I took you to a nice hotel, we saw the sights—"

"If by sights you mean the inside of a jail cell—"

"Hey, that cell had ambience—"

"Oh, yes, and the corpses of the three cellmates you killed added such romance—"

"I wasn't going to let them hurt you," he says, which is not the next line in the familiar exchange. His voice has gone dark, as have his eyes, and his fingers flex on her waist. "I made a promise."

"I know you did, love," she says softly. "And you've kept it admirably."

"You're asking me to break it."

"I'm asking you to keep it," she counters. "If we fail, I'll receive far worse than a single punch." She kisses him, lightly, and is pleased by the resignation she sees in his eyes when she draws back. "Help me avoid the price of failure, Grant. Please."

He sighs heavily and steps back, out of her reach.

"All right," he says. His eyes are still dark, and she has the passing thought that he'll have no trouble selling this act to Skye if he keeps that look on his face. "But I'm gonna make it up to you, Jem. I'm gonna spend weeks making it up to you, and you're not gonna complain."

"I won't," she says. "I promise."

"We'll go on vacation," he says. "I'm going to kill every man who looks at you, and you're not gonna say a single word about needing to keep a low profile or about my tendency to overreact."

"That sounds fair," she agrees, making a mental note to do some pre-emptive damage control before they go on holiday. She'll get Lorenzo on it; he does so love cleaning up the trail of bodies Grant inevitably leaves in his wake.

"I'm going to make you beg before I touch you," he continues. "And then I'm gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop. And you're not gonna complain about wanting a turn to touch me."

She draws a little x over her (now racing) heart. It has been far, far too long since they had the opportunity to truly enjoy one another. And she so enjoys it when he gets demanding. She's looking forward to their holiday already.

"You may make it up to me to your heart's content," she promises. "But only if you do this for me now."

"Okay," he says, swallowing convulsively. He nods once, resolved. "Okay."

"Good," she smiles. She's not looking forward to this, but she's glad to have finally brought him on board, and she doesn't want to give him cause to change his mind again by appearing apprehensive. "Now. Hit me."